


Queering the Quarantine

by Kierkegarden (orphan_account)



Category: Original Work, Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Academia, Anarcho-Capitalism, COVID-19, Completely unedited, Coronavirus, Crack, Current Events, F/F, Gen, Humor, Leftist Overtones, M/M, McDonald's, Multiple Time Frames, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Apocalypse, Quarantine, Satire, old man sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: The year is 2042 and the nuclear Coronapocaplyse has ravaged Earth into an Anarcho-Capitalist wasteland. Disgruntled Gender Studies professor Dr. Maya Hopkins finds an ancient iPhone amidst the nuclear slime, containing sacrilege and conspiracy. Will she save the world or run out of funding?The year is 2020, and Pres. Donald Trump and Former Vice Pres. Joe Biden begin a totally-straight love affair with one another's egos. In an age of Quarantine, what could go wrong?
Relationships: Donald Trump/Joe Biden, Donald Trump/Vladimir Putin (past)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	Queering the Quarantine

**Author's Note:**

> O Lord, what have I done?

Maya Hopkins, all things considered, did not have it bad. It was sometimes hard to remember that, though, particularly at times like these. With great effort, she heaved her shovel down into a massive heap of nuclear waste and breathed deep into her oxygen mask. Yes, all things considered, she had it pretty good. Particularly, in this economy.

Maya had been educated at multiple Ivy League schools, back when there were multiple universities to choose from. She had earned her bachelor’s degree at Yale and gone straight to a doctorate from Columbia, where she had also completed her post doc. That was, until the Coronas. Until the Apocalypse. Until the world changed.

Little could she have imagined what the world would look like twenty years from that. When Maya had gone for a Gender Studies degree, she had not imagined herself sweating in a hazmat suit, digging through an endless nuclear desert of radioactive wasteland. But, all things considered, she had a job - and a job was better than no job. She even had a job in her chosen field, at McDonald’s University, where she was tenured at a fixed salary of $40,000 McBucks a year.

Reaching a sweaty gloved hand down into the filth, Maya paused to allow herself to catch her breath. She thought of her sister, a History major who had minored in Anthropology. This job was certainly better suited to an Anthropologist, but the entire humanities department had been slashed after the Coronas. All except for Gender Studies. And she had been mocked for picking a useless degree! 

_How else could Pride Culture continue to sell Sassy Gay McTeeShirts if not for Gender Studies professors to continually prove that we are still oppressed?_ Maya thought. That’s why she was here, at the bottom of the totem pole, literally a filth digger. It was all to cause a mass marketed scandal. Rainbow Capitalism relied on a positive gain-to-loss PHT (Piping Hot Tea) ratio. Someone, after all, needed to be brewing the tea. 

Maya sighed and heaved herself down into the filth. It couldn’t burn her skin or give her Corona because of her suit, anyway. What had she become? What had this world become? She only continued on because someone needed to provide for her McGayMarried Wife and two young McSanctioned children. How else was she supposed to live? 

Back in the day, she had been a progressive. She had desperately hoped that the Coronas would make for positive change, healthcare reform and a guaranteed living wage. Instead, The Legendary GodLord Trump had decreed a nuclear Corona Bomb be thrust upon all enemy nations. In his Eternal Reasonableness, that included everyone but the Great McUSA. Then the great war came, and the famine. The people turned to the only God they knew, The Grand Supreme McDonald’s Corporation. So began the New Pantheon: GodLord Trump, Jesus Christ, and Ronald McDonald, our lord and savior. 

Maya leaned back and looked up at the sky. It was hazy and orange with pink and purple clouds. She had read somewhere that this was caused by the massive amount of pollution in the air, and the radiation soaking into the atmosphere, but somehow, it looked beautiful anyway. She reached back, as if to make a snow angel in the murk. She missed snow, and weather in general. She missed the old way, before the dark times had hit. She even missed the period of quarantine. 

Back then, Maya had holed herself up in her small apartment with her wife, and taught undergrads remotely on her ancient laptop. Ah, the simple life of a PhD student in 2020. Spaghetti or defrosted chicken nuggets for dinner every night, receiving emails from her PI demanding that she continue to work through the Coronas. She continued to work long after they ran out of chicken nuggets, long after the entire world had been put on a shelter-in-place order. At the time, it had seemed unfair but now Maya longed for it. Even the cruel commentary on her dissertation seemed a blessing now! Now that she had joined the workforce, she understood why professors came off so harshly. It was a hard world.

Suddenly, Maya’s hand collided with something equally hard amidst the sludge. She gasped, grasping for it as it slid amidst the slippery waste. Could it be that she had made a discovery? She pulled it closer to the eyeholes in her hazard mask to examine and brushed some brown material off of it with her thumb. It was rectangular and thin, with a cracked screen. She flipped it over in her gloved palm, revealing three small cameras. The make of the device looked incredibly familiar, although she hadn’t seen anything like it in decades. It appeared to be an iPhone, similar to the ones released just before the Coronapocalpyse. Maya furrowed her brow. Phones like this had been banned when the Grand Supreme McDonald’s Corporation took over the government and announced the McSmartPhone. 

Then, something else caught Maya’s eye. She gasped. Engraved on the back of the device was a name. It was a name the world knew only too well. 

_Donald J. Trump._

***

Trump sat in his office, bored. He should have been stressing out about Coronavirus probably, but he really wasn’t concerned. After all, he was basically God and thus was not vulnerable to disease or even death. If he ever felt like he was going to die, he would just immediately pump the blood of healthy young poor people into his veins and be fine. Furthermore, he was in a very secure quarantine with access to the best ever healthcare.

He wasn’t worried about himself or anybody else. He never really was. What he was worried about was making sure the American public knew that he was Going to Be Elected in the Fall. Up until now, that could be ensured by posting angry tweets and calling other politicians rude nicknames. It had worked for him in the past and would continue to work now. It had to. They had to win and win big. It was time to make America even greater than ever before, even greater than it had been before the Coronavirus. This was an opportunity to assert his ultimate authority as the GodKing he was born to be.

Trump reached into his desk drawer, past his collection of framed photographs of himself and fanart he had commissioned of himself and Putin and framed hundred dollar bills that he kept just to remind himself that he was incredibly rich. He pulled out his custom engraved iPhone and opened Twitter.

“AMERICA IS EQUIPT TO HANDLE THIS CRISIS BECAUSE WE ARE A NATION OF GREAT PEOPLE!” He typed.

Then he quickly googled “equipt” and fixed his spelling error. He leaned back in his swivelly comfy oval office chair that had been custom designed to accommodate his juicy orange butt. It simply wasn’t spicy enough. It wasn’t rude enough. The American populace lived for him being a jerk.

“AMERICA IS EQUIPPED TO HANDLE THIS CRISIS BECAUSE WE ARE A NATION OF GREAT PEOPLE...THE DEMOCRATS AND FAKE NEWS WANT YOU TO BELIEVE THIS IS A CRISIS...IT IS AN OPPORTUNITY TO SHOW OUR STRENGTH”

That was more like it, Trump thought, but it definitely went over the character limit. Besides, it didn’t actually make sense that he himself called it a crisis and then said that it wasn’t one. 

All of this Tweeting was tiring Trump out. It was so incredibly hard to sit in the Oval Office while working America, for the most part, continued labor and industry despite the deadly virus that had befallen them. Trump hadn’t signed up to deal with a pandemic. He had just wanted to flex his muscles and let America know how massive his dick was. This was, like, totally unfair. 

He opened Twitter again, the laborious click causing him to heave a deep sigh. 

“SLEEPY JOE AND CRAZY BERNIE WANT YOU TO BELIEVE THIS IS A CRISIS. FAKE NEWS! IT IS AN OPPORTUNITY TO SHOW OUR STRENGTH”

There. That was just under the character limit and cut right to the insult. Trump was just a man of the people, after all, giving the people what they needed. He smiled and took a sip of his Poland Springs bottled water that he kept on his desk by the caseful. Suddenly, his phone dinged. That was strange. It was not the ding of a stupid idiot democrat responding to his Tweet but was instead the ding he had assigned to a different app -- an app of a more...private nature. Trump greedily opened Snapchat. Had Putin sent him another quarantine sext? He immediately felt a tiny boner pop in his pants at the thought of it. 

Then, he saw who it was from and his boner withered and died.

One unread Snap, the app said.

It was from Joe Biden.

  
  


***

Trump stared at his phone screen as the words danced in front of his eyes. Surely, this was a mistake. Surely, this was meant to go to one of those damned democrats. 

“hey big boy, u up?” the Snap read. The text was positioned over a dimly lit image of Joe Biden’s sagging naked torso. Trump studied his expert greying manscaping that grew like a tiny prickly forest over his slightly plump belly. Biden was so pale, Trump thought, unable to look away. He clearly didn’t believe in the chemicals Trump had injected into his skin to ensure he always maintained a radiant shade of orange. 

(It was like poetry, Trump thought to himself. He, the Tiger, king of the American jungle. The working poor, his prey. Of course he couldn’t have a natural skin color. He was a God.)

Even still, there was something frighteningly appealing about Biden’s pale, disgusting physique. As the Snap closed, Trump made sure to take a mental picture of it. Then, he promptly replied. 

“wrong number, sleepy joe. ur dementia is showing”

He grinned deviously, imagining how embarrassed Biden would be when he realized the image had been sent to his rival. It was a shame that Snapchats got deleted several seconds after viewing them. If Trump hadn’t been so transfixed by Biden’s sagging pecs, he would have saved the image and used it to make a highly successful smear campaign. 

Oh well, Trump thought. He was rich and owned the surveillance state and could easily pull the data from Snapchat, pretending it was a matter of national security. Of course, it kind of was. America had to know. No Straight White Male Patriarchal American would want to be governed by a queer person - let alone an old gross queer person like Biden. Trump’s affair with Putin was something entirely different, of course. Trump was still straight, after all, he was just bored and lonely on quarantine. With Melania living in a totally different house, he couldn’t bribe her with copious amounts of capital to have sex with him. It wasn’t fair and Trump most certainly was not gay.

Trump stopped short mid-thought. His internal monologue -- he wondered if this would cause certain readers to believe the author was homophobic. It’s all me, Trump thought to himself, and doesn’t reflect on the author’s opinion at all. He made a mental note to add a “period typical homophobia” tag to this work, which was fairly satirical as the year was 2020 and homophobia was, in fact, still a rampant problem in America. 

Trump, of course, didn’t find it a problem. Trump rarely thought about it at all.

Suddenly, Trump’s iPhone dinged again, that same familiar ding. It was a low, sensual ding.

He opened Snapchat to an interesting emoji. It was the eggplant emoji, three of them actually, followed by the words “oh yeah?? this is djt right? come and get me big boy”

Now, despite himself, Trump was fully erect. He was so horny since this quarantine was put in place and he couldn’t exploit whoever he wanted like that GodKing he was. Pathetic, he thought to himself, but arousing as well.

He texted back “thats president djt to u, sleepy joe” and within minutes, he had a reply.

It was Joe Biden’s dick. And it was hard.

Sleepy Joe was no longer sleepy. He was awake and he was ready to fuck.

***

Back at the lab, Maya had her McRobots remove her hazmat suit and put it into the purging chamber to remove all radioactive residue. She let the McMediBot check her for any signs of Corona or other infectious disease. Finally, she was allowed to sit down at her work station. 

The iPhone, fresh from the purging chamber, was now safe to touch with her bare hands. Maya marvelled at her discovery, dusting it for fingerprints. Any signs of use had long been corroded by sludge and the phone itself was long dead. Before she could attempt the impossible - to plug the vile machine in - she had to call her supervisor - the Dean of the Gender Studies department - for permission.

Maya booted up the communication device on her wrist. It looked like a small metal bracelet and was clearly modelled off of the comlinks in Star Wars. Back in the day, McDonald’s would have had to pay Disney royalties for the right to use that style. Nowadays, The Supreme McDonald’s Corporation owned Disney. They owned Star Wars. They owned the churches and every human on God's green earth. They were, quite literally, God.

“We activate this link in the name of Ronald McDonald, amen,” Maya muttered into her wrist, her words springing the device into power mode.

“Welcome to The McCommunicator 2042,” said a robotic female voice, “Who would you like to call today?”

“Dial Professor McFeminism,” said Maya.

“Did I hear Professor McMillan?” the cheery female voice replied.

Maya groaned. It usually took several tries with these things. The operator had been a rush job from the science and technology department at McDonald’s University: New Austin. But she wasn’t biased or anything.

“Dial Professor _McFeminism,”_ Maya insisted.

“Dialing Professor McFeminism…”

Finally, Maya thought to herself as her ears were greeted by a shrill ringing sound. The faint outline of a rainbow robot began to assemble itself from the particles on her wrist. It was wearing a “#GirlBoss” McTeeShirt.

“Professor,” Maya said, “How are you doing?”

“Adverse systems neutralized,” Professor McFeminism said in a low drone, “The weather is...typical. All is well at McDonald’s University -- New Washington DC.”

“I need to ask you permission to power up an artifact,” Maya said, “It’s an iPhone. I suspect it’s from the Quarantine. It could have important information!”

“All smartphones other than the McSmartPhone...are...banned...by corporate.”

“I know that,” Maya sighed in exasperation, “but this one is important! It’s engraved on the back with the initials of GodLord Trump!”

Professor McFeminism paused, as a faint whirring sound transmitted through the communicator. This was a good sign, Maya thought, it meant they were thinking. 

“I will...seek permission. From the Dean of Humanities.”

Maya grinned despite herself. That was probably the best she could hope for. Even after the Coronapocalypse, academia was subjected to an endless flow of meaningless bureaucracy. Perhaps it was even worse now that graduate students no longer existed to bear the majority of the burden. 

“Thank you, Professor McFeminism,” Maya saluted them, “Let me know what you find out.”

***

It had been three days and Trump and Biden were still sexting on Snapchat. It felt so wrong...but also so right. It was so all consuming that Trump had put Putin out of his mind completely. The Russian’s snaps had been left on read and Trump hardly noticed the bold text or smirking emoji next to it. He had a new play toy now.

The American people were starting to wonder if the president was okay. He had been completely absent from press conferences and his usual routine Tweets were barren. His advisors insisted that he needed to make a move or people would begin to speculate that he too was sick -- but Trump just ignored them. “If you talk to me again, I will fire you like the rest of them,” He said in one final, angry text. Instead of dealing with politics, Trump was busy dealing with Biden’s body. He had found in these past few days that this secret affair was just what he needed to get through these long, laborious days. He met Joe on Zoom dates, FaceTime and Snapchat. But Trump wanted more.

One evening, as he sat in his bedroom on a plush tempurpedic mattress that had cost $10,000 dollars, he texted Biden those two glorious words.

“cum over,” Trump implored. He knew it wasn’t allowed - that it was going against the warnings of every medical advisor and most of his cabinet. But he just couldn’t wait. He needed Biden now. Plus, science and medicine had never stopped him before so how could it stop him now -- now that he needed Biden’s body more than ever.

“i can’t,” Biden shot back within minutes, accompanied by a sensual pic of his aging groin, “coronavirus :(“

“ur going to let that stop u???” Trump demanded, “when u could have this?”

His rotund orange tummy protruded across his phone camera like a ripe tangerine.

“give it to me, daddy,” He added for effect - Biden wouldn’t be able to deny him. Not now, and not ever.

“fine,” Biden said, “u come here. 2 person meeting only.”

But that wasn’t enough for Trump, who had an endless supply of young working man’s blood to sustain himself if he ever got sick. He would share with Biden...in exchange for sex.

He was about to argue as much, when his phone dinged a long sensual ding again.

“jk….” Biden wrote, “i’m cumming 2 u”

***

Trump was sprawled out across his expensive bed when Biden climbed his rackety old bones up the tree to get to his window. In an unprecedented move of generosity, Trump had allowed to White House staff to shelter in place in order for Biden to access him without dealing with security. He could hear the arthritic crack of Biden’s joints as he shimmied up the tree, clawing towards the window sill. 

Trump lazily gazed at him, struggling.

“Work for me, you lazy democrat,” Trump muttered sensually.

Biden chuckled. “I am an establishment dem,” he purred, “and therefore, we are more politically similar than you could ever imagine.”

“I know that,” Trump rolled his eyes, “I just wanted to do a roleplay where you actually give a shit about the working class and I can oppress you with my giant MAGA cock.”

“I’ve seen your cock,” Biden said, finally letting himself in. He crawled across Trump’s bed like a spider, “and it is not great by any measure.”

Trump shivered. “But you can’t get enough of it.”

They locked eyes. Both politicians knew the appeal of the affair came from the secrecy and not from any attraction to one another. If they were actually queer and gave a shit about gay rights, they might be slightly cooler, but instead they were just getting off on being rich establishment GodLord politicians and had a long voting history of homophobia and racism to boot. 

“Pretend you give a shit about the American people,” Trump cooed, “For me, Joe.”

Biden shook his head. “I can’t do that. I already do that on the campaign trail all the time and it’s _hard_ , Don. Let me just be an evil megalomaniac like you.”

That didn’t really compute to Trump. Sex to him had always been about asserting his power and wealth over the other person and if they were equally power-hungry and rich, what was the point? Still, Biden was here and he was horny. Trump was in no place to argue with his demands.

“Fuck me, daddy,” said Biden in a truly disgusting way. They hopped on top of eachother and had sex in a truly unremarkable and unsatisfying way. In that moment, they understood the pain the author was in when she wrote this, because neither of them prepped or used lube. It was terrible just like this story. Just like my life.  
  


***

It was halfway through the school week when Maya finally got her answer. It came in the form of a steely ding on her wrist. She was so excited that she ended her virtual lecture - _What Is Gender And Why Does It Matter In An Apocalypse? -_ early. 

Saying the Lord’s prayer, Maya started up her communicator, thrumming her fingers on her work station in anticipation.

Dr. McFeminism looked as stoic as ever. Today, they were wearing a McTeeShirt with the Superwoman logo. McDonald’s had taken over the rights to DC Comics as well, of course. 

“Professor McFeminism,” Maya started, “Did you get your answer about the smart phone?”

Her superior nodded their spiny rainbow neck as their head gears spun.

“Under the freedom of religion clause, there is precedent for you to explore the contents of the phone. The clause states “Any individual who finds religious artifacts is free to explore them in their entirety so long as they pertain to GodLord Trump, Jesus Christ, Ronald McDonald, our lord and savior, or any other corporate sanctioned religious figure as subject to definition by the Ray and Joan Croc Foundation, McDonald’s Incorporated. Considering that this iPhone is labelled “Donald J. Trump,” the Dean of the Humanities is allowing you to pursue this research. He is even giving you a grant to explore the ruins of an ancient McBestBuy to find the proper cord.”

Maya froze. A research grant? It had been ten years since she had been granted funding, which was yet another ploy to oppress queer people and flip profits on McRainbow merchandise. 

“Wow,” she stuttered, “I am so thankful. In Ronald’s name we say amen!”

“Amen,” Professor McFeminism replied in their calculating unemotional way. Just as religion should be, Maya supposed, as per corporate regulation.

“You may take a research sabbatical starting in two years,” Professor McFeminism continued. Maya felt the color drain from her face. Two years? With the way the nuclear wasteland was looking, she wasn’t sure they had two years. McBestBuys would certainly be ravaged to their bare bones by then. She’d be lucky to find a charging cord now!

“Are you kidding?” Maya slammed her fist down at her desk, “Is there no other option?”

“Well, there is another way. You may take your own money and explore the McBestBuy by limiting your office hours and using weekends. That could begin on Monday.”

Maya groaned. Even in an apocalypse, academia was still academia.

“There’s no way to even apply for funding any sooner?”

Professor McFeminism made a series of beeps indicating a calculation was in process. 

“I’m sorry,” they clamped their rainbow pincers together in thought, “Funding is only available for the SCIENCE. TECHNOLOGY. ENGINEERING. and MATHEMATICS. Programs. Limited funding is available for HUMANITIES. Beginning in TWO YEARS. _Art gets none._ ”

“Ugh, fine!” Maya’s fist swung at her communicator, shutting off the hologram. If developments were to be made in the field of Humanities, she supposed, she had to do it herself. Maya picked up a hazmat knapsack and stuffed it with previsions. Food, McBucks, ID card, a laser gun, and the precious iPhone in its plastic case. She stormed over to her door where she input her new office hours and her communicator code, as per the operator. Strapping on her suit and gloves, she hastily pulled the mask over her nose and mouth.

When Maya was a reasonable distance from campus, she made sure to flip it off. The sludge was treacherous and deep and there was no public transportation that she could afford. It would be a long hike to McBestBuy, but Maya was dedicated to finding out the truth. What information was on this iPhone? And what could it reveal about The GodLord?


End file.
